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  When the milk was ready, he set a mug full of it in front of her and sat down in the one other chair. He folded his elbows on the table.

  “Drink,” he ordered.

  “It was very kind of you to do this, but I really don’t like warm milk.”

  “Drink,” he said again. “It may not do anything for you, but it will make me feel better.”

  “Okay, okay.” She raised the mug with both hands and took a tentative taste. She swallowed and made a face. “You’re inclined to be rather dictatorial, but I suppose you already know that.”

  “Others have mentioned the trait on occasion over the years, but I feel that I have been sadly misunderstood.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  She drank some more of the milk.

  “Want to tell me about the dream?” he asked after a while.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I’d rather not talk about it. Makes it too real, if you know what I mean.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Did I, uh, say anything?” she asked cautiously.

  “While you were caught up in the nightmare?” He shook his head, wondering why that possibility concerned her. “Not much. Just the word no a couple of times.”

  She looked relieved. “That’s all?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I just wondered. It’s a little embarrassing, to tell you the truth.”

  “Do you remember saying something in the dream?”

  “Not really.” She looked down at the milk. “It was one of those bad dreams in which you find yourself running away from some unseen threat. A common, garden-variety nightmare.”

  She was lying, he thought. It made him curious, but he let it go. This was not the time to push her.

  “Given the events of the day, it’s not surprising that your dream would follow that script,” he said.

  “I guess not.”

  He watched the remnants of her tension dissipate as she drank the milk.

  After a while, he rinsed out the empty mug and led her back to the bedroom.

  They got into bed, and he cradled her close. She relaxed against him.

  He had just decided that she was safely asleep when she spoke.

  “Thanks for the milk,” she mumbled.

  “Any time.”

  Chapter Ten

  The door of Ian Harper’s office opened. Venetia McAlistair, clutching a set of files, walked into the room. Her round face was crimped in disapproval.

  With her halo of gray curls, her little glasses, and her frumpy suits, Venetia made Ian think of his grandmother. There had always been cookies in the oven and a heavy leather belt hanging close at hand in Granny’s house. Granny had not hesitated to use the heavy leather strap on her little man if he failed to follow all of the rules. Can’t have you turning out like your father, now can we?

  “I brought my notes regarding Sara Cleland,” Venetia said. “But I can’t understand why you want to go over them, and I’m rather busy this afternoon.”

  “Please sit down,” Ian said. “I have some news.”

  He had not been looking forward to this conversation. He did not like Venetia, but there was no getting around the fact that she knew more about the Cleland woman than anyone else at the Manor. Furthermore, she had a strong personal interest in seeing Sara Cleland returned to the hospital.

  “What news?” Venetia demanded.

  “Leon Grady found the Cleland woman.”

  “I don’t understand.” Venetia sat down hard in one of the two chairs on the other side of the desk. The jacket of her skirted suit bunched up around her thick waist. She held the files she had brought with her in both hands on her lap. “You told me that she and the other patient who escaped that night died in a hotel fire somewhere in Mexico.”

  “Apparently they faked their deaths, or at least the Cleland woman faked hers.”

  “I see.” Venetia removed her glasses and absently polished the lenses with the hem of her white blouse. “This is really quite astonishing. I had no idea.”

  “Several days ago, Grady was contacted online by someone calling himself GopherBoy. This individual claimed to have hacked into the files of someone who sells false identities over the net. He managed to steal some of the files before that person realized there was an intruder.”

  “Incredible. I’ve heard of such things, of course, but I never—”

  “The hacker claimed that he had information regarding our patient and that he would give it to us for a price,” Ian said, impatient with the interruption.

  “I see.” Venetia positioned her glasses back on her nose. “What did you do?”

  “I authorized payment of a large sum of money to him. Grady handled the transaction. He told me that in exchange for the money, he had been given a name, some personal data, and the information that the Cleland woman was in L.A. We both agreed that he should try to find the woman and verify her identity before we arranged to have her picked up and returned to us.”

  “Of course. It certainly wouldn’t do to snatch the wrong person off the street, would it? There are laws against that sort of thing.”

  Ian gritted his teeth. Once in a while he got the uneasy feeling that Venetia McAlistair did not have a great deal of professional respect for him.

  “Grady left for Los Angeles a few days ago,” he said. “And then he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “He has evidently betrayed this institution and my confidence. I do not know for certain what he plans to do with the information he has regarding the Cleland woman, but I think we can be sure that he does not intend to see her safely returned to the Manor.”

  “But where is he?”

  “Fortunately, Ms. Leeds became suspicious of his behavior almost immediately and took action. She instructed Al Drummer in accounting to keep tabs on Grady by tracking his charge card expenses. Grady did indeed use his Candle Lake Manor card to get to L.A. There he rented a car and that is when he vanished.”

  Venetia looked baffled. “Where did he go?”

  “Ms. Leeds believes that he has gone to wherever the Cleland woman really is, of course. She is currently trying to come up with that information.”

  “But what on earth does Grady intend to do?”

  “I’m not sure, but I suspect he has figured out a way to make a profit on the information he got from the hacker. Some form of blackmail, I imagine.”

  Outrage glittered in Venetia’s birdlike eyes. “I must tell you, Dr. Harper, that I have long had serious doubts about Leon Grady’s professional attitude and dedication. I’ve never been convinced that he put the best interests of this hospital or the patients first.”

  No shit, Ian thought. But he managed to maintain his carefully honed facade of the dedicated professional. “Unfortunately, your impression was correct. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, is it not?”

  “She has gone without her therapy and medication for an entire year. There is no telling how much ground has been lost.”

  “I agree. The situation is quite critical.”

  Venetia sat up very straight, gripping her files. “We must bring her back at once. For her own sake.”

  You mean because you’ve got plans for her, Ian thought. But he did not say that out loud. Whatever McAlistair wanted to do with the Cleland woman once she had been retrieved did not interest him. His only goal was to get his extremely profitable patient back.

  The door opened again. Fenella Leeds entered.

  “I’ve got an address for the Cleland woman,” she said coldly. “Found it in some email correspondence that Grady conducted with that hacker. Grady deleted the email, but I was able to recover it. He was always very sloppy about records of all kinds.”

  Fenella’s beautiful face was as composed and impassive as ever. Ian still could not believe that he had had her in his bed for a while. At the start of their brief affair, he had considered himself a very lucky man. By the time she had lost interest in him and ended the relationshi
p, he was profoundly relieved.

  Fenella was the only woman he had ever met besides his grandmother who had the power to terrify him.

  “Where is Sara?” Venetia demanded.

  Fenella glanced at her notes. “A town called Whispering Springs. It’s in Arizona. She’s living under the name Zoe Luce.”

  “What about Grady?” Ian asked. “Did you find him?”

  “No. Evidently he’s smart enough not to charge his lodging and meals to his corporate credit card. He probably realizes that we could track him that way.”

  “Well, he’s the least of our problems,” Ian said. “We’ll deal with him later. The chief priority is to get Sara back. I’ll send two of the orderlies who know her and who have been trained to handle difficult patients. Get Drummer from accounting in here. I’ll tell him to authorize the travel expenses. I also want to make sure he keeps quiet about this.”

  “Absolutely,” Fenella said. “The last thing we want is for word of this situation to get out to any of our clients. Publicity like this is precisely what they pay us to avoid.”

  Five minutes later, Al Drummer walked into the office. If Venetia reminded him of his grandmother, Ian thought, Drummer put him in mind of the stern, fire-and-brimstone preacher whose sermons Granny had forced him to endure every Sunday—the one who had shocked the congregation when he was arrested while trolling for prostitutes one weekend in Florida.

  Ian gave him the outline of the situation.

  Drummer’s eyes blazed with what could only be described as righteous wrath.

  “I told you that Leon Grady could not be entrusted with a corporate credit card,” Drummer said.

  Chapter Eleven

  She awoke feeling a little groggy but not nearly as wrung out as she usually did after one of the bad dreams. For a few seconds, she kept her eyes closed and tried to make sense of the incessant warbling sound that had awakened her.

  Something about the bed felt wrong. It finally occurred to her that she was alone in it. It was unsettling to realize how quickly the feel of Ethan’s weight beside her had become familiar and comfortable. One night. Probably not a good thing.

  She opened her eyes and sat up against the pillows.

  Ethan was gone.

  A glance at the bedside clock provided one possible explanation for his departure. It was almost ten o’clock. She stared, disbelieving, at the hands of the timepiece. She never slept this late.

  The irritating warble interrupted her thoughts. She pushed aside the covers, swung her feet over the side of the bed, and reached for the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Did he spend the night?” Arcadia asked without preamble.

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? Did he or didn’t he?”

  “He was here.”

  “I had a feeling that might happen.” Arcadia sounded pleased. “Something about the way he was watching you all through dinner last night. Can I assume matters turned appropriately passionate when you got back to your apartment?”

  “He said it was the aftereffects of the adrenaline jag we had both been on all afternoon and evening.”

  “Adrenaline jag.” Arcadia sounded thoughtful. “I suppose that’s as good an excuse as any for hot, steamy sex with a virtual stranger.”

  “That’s certainly what I’m telling myself this morning.” She got to her feet and reached for her robe. “Heaven knows, I need some kind of rationalization for what happened. I can’t believe I did it, Arcadia. I haven’t even been interested in a man since—” She broke off. “You know.”

  “I know.”

  “And then, last night it was as if the floodgates had been opened. It was a completely surreal experience, if you want to know the truth.”

  Arcadia chuckled. “It probably just felt a little weird because you’ve been celibate for so long. Don’t worry about it. You had a right to a night of wild abandon. Is he still there?”

  “No. He’s gone. One is tempted to make the usual snide remarks about men who sneak out without saying goodbye but I suppose I’ve got to allow for mitigating circumstances in this case.”

  “Circumstances such as the fact that it’s ten o’clock on a weekday morning and he does have a business to operate?”

  “Yeah. And so do I. I just remembered that I’ve got an appointment with a client at eleven, and I’ve got to arrange for repairs at the Taylor residence. I don’t even want to think about what they’ll say when they find out what happened to that gorgeous Spanish chest.”

  “Relax. It will give them a good story to tell at their next cocktail party.”

  “I certainly hope they take that attitude.” Clutching the phone, she slid her feet into a pair of slippers and padded down the hall toward the kitchen. “I can’t believe I slept in like this. And so solidly. I never even heard him leave.”

  “He probably didn’t want to wake you.”

  “More likely he didn’t want to have to make any of the customary polite promises about calling me.” She picked up the teakettle and turned on the faucet. “Based on what he told me of his track record, I’m afraid Ethan Truax has a problem with the commitment thing.”

  “What track record?”

  “He admitted that he’s been married and divorced three times.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t sound like he goes in for permanency. But, then, you’re not exactly looking for a long-term committed relationship, yourself, at the moment, are you?”

  It was a depressing observation but entirely valid. A committed relationship implied truth, trust, and a degree of intimacy that she dared not risk.

  “Point taken.” She plugged in the kettle and opened the ceramic jar that contained her favorite tea. “Still, three marriages and three divorces are a little scary.”

  “Not even close,” Arcadia said quietly. “You and I both know some real scary types. Ethan Truax is not in that category.”

  “I won’t argue with you.”

  “Not to change the subject, but have you seen the paper this morning?” Arcadia asked.

  Zoe started to say no. Then she noticed the morning edition of the Whispering Springs Herald lying on the kitchen table. Ethan must have found it at her door and brought it inside before he left. She wondered if she should be touched by the thoughtful gesture. Maybe he had merely brought it in for his own convenience to read before he left for work. That was the problem with a guy who was commitment-phobic. You did not know what kind of spin to put on his actions.

  “It’s here,” she said into the phone. “But I haven’t read it.”

  “You might want to take a look at the story below the fold of the second section.”

  “Uh-oh. Should I get a bad feeling about this?”

  “Depends.”

  Zoe took a step closer to the high table and saw that the paper had been left folded open to the second section. It was impossible to miss the headline.

  DESERT VIEW MAN CONFESSES TO MURDER OF WIFE

  A jolt of unease went through her.

  “How bad is it?” she asked. “That nice Detective Ramirez who took our statements yesterday promised that he would do his best to keep me out of it.”

  “You’re out of it, all right. Neither you nor Enhanced Interiors is mentioned by name. The story doesn’t name the Taylors, either. It just refers to shots fired at a private residence.”

  “That’s a relief. What about Ethan? This was his first case here in Whispering Springs. Did he get any credit for being the hero of the hour?”

  “That’s the amusing part,” Arcadia stated. “Read the last couple of paragraphs.”

  Zoe looked closer and saw that Ethan had marked them for her with a heavily inked arrow.

  . . . A police spokesperson acknowledged that the murder might never have come to light had it not been for the actions of the private investigator who tracked Mason to the residence yesterday. “His inquiries into the disappearance of Jennifer Mason broke the case,” the spokesperson said.

  A r
epresentative of Radnor Security Systems, a local firm that handles security for Desert View as well as several large businesses in the area, was contacted for comment. He referred all questions to the CEO of the firm, Nelson Radnor, who, in turn declined, citing a long-standing policy of client confidentiality.

  “Radnor.” Zoe snatched up the paper. “The stupid reporter got the wrong agency.”

  “He probably just went on the assumption that the investigator was a Radnor employee because everyone knows that company is the big banana in security around here.”

  “Reporters aren’t supposed to go on assumptions.” Fuming, she slapped the paper against the edge of the table. “They’re supposed to report facts.”

  “Really? Since when? I hadn’t heard that.”

  Zoe sighed. “Poor Ethan. He risks his neck, does all the work, and doesn’t get the credit.”

  “Look on the bright side. He got you into bed last night. That’s more than any other man has accomplished in a very long time.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A bell tinkled somewhere in the veils of darkness that hung from the ceiling of Single-Minded Books. Ethan closed the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He had known the proprietor, Singleton Cobb, for only three weeks. He had not yet figured out if Cobb was passionately devoted to the cause of saving a couple of bucks on his electricity bill or if he thought the dingy decor added atmosphere. This was an antiquarian bookstore, after all.

  The place was so crammed that he could hardly move. If Zoe ever saw the interior, she’d probably advise Singleton to get rid of all the bookcases. They no doubt messed up the energy flow.

  The collection was impressive, especially given the relatively small size of the shop. Out-of-print and rare volumes of all shapes and descriptions filled row after row of shelves that extended from floor to ceiling. The pleasant, slightly musty smell of old books and aged leather permeated the space.